Twenty years ago this month I started the instant, endless business of being a Baltimorean and falling a little in love with all the other Baltimoreans.
Unlike my friend Jim, who took the day off last year to mark the anniversary of his arrival on these Styrofoam-pocked shores, I almost overlooked mine. A news item about the 20th anniversary of Marvin Gaye’s death jogged my memory of hearing that news for the first time as I drove up I-95, following a rental truck full of my furniture up from D.C. on a Sunday night. (We pulled in a week after the Colts pulled out.) The next morning I rushed up and down Charles Street to collect oysters, beer, and everything else I’d promised my moving crew at my new shared house. They came, they emptied the truck and the oyster shells and the cans of Boh, then we all walked over to an historically glorious Opening Day at Memorial Stadium.
I’ve found so much of what I came here for: the good will that bubbles over in sidewalk and countertop talk with kind, opinionated strangers. Patentable dyslocutions (“We were misconcepted,” from a combatant in the permit parking wars, is still my favorite). Mrs. Jenkins, my indestructible Avon lady with the Shenandoah twang, multiple piercings, and grown grandchildren. Postal workers at the South Station I wait on line just to talk to—you would, too. Storytellers; liars; cheerleaders; combinations of the foregoing. Dr. Goodman, whom all pets deserve but only a lucky few get. Waitpersons who deliver, bartenders who indulge, a bouncer who carded me when I turned 40 just so I’d feel young. Officeholders who remember my name without a legislative aide in tow to whisper it in their ear—of course they’re all Democrats. Friends who always have coffee on, who say “let yourself in” and “give me your resume” and “is everything okay?” and, to their kids, “say hello to Miss Eileen.” People whose names I’m always forgetting (I’m not an officeholder) who don’t seem to mind. Folks who bring flowers on my birthday in case the boyfriend doesn’t, or in case there is no boyfriend.
If I can make it here . . . I’d be nuts not to. My city’s a mess in many ways, although now I’m enough of an old-timer to remember when it’s been worse. But none of us lives in a government. I live in a dirty, cozy, maddeningly inefficient, Formstoned, potholed, artistic, tasty, baselessly optimistic world.
I love visiting noisier, quieter, sunnier, hillier places when I get the chance. I love coming home. Thanks for being here.